New York
by The Light Of Elendil
Summary: Prologue. A story of 'Renee Leigh Delilahs' quite tragic life. Contains depression and self-abuse soon to come . Not technically 'Fan Fiction', it is purely self-created but it would be nice to see what people think of it. I was not sure on catagorys..
1. Chapter 1

_**This is the first installment in my story, non of it is real though it might say it is.**_

**_The story isn't mainly about New York at all, in fact I know little about New York as I live in England - South Yorkshire. I don't think you could really get a much different comparason to New York. Non-the-less, it is set in New York._**

**_I hope you enjoy this story, I hope I can make this as depressing as need be to get an idea of the situation along._**

_**It's quite short but there are longer parts to come.**_

* * *

_**New York-**_

_**Prologue.**_

No.

This is not a guaranteed 'enjoyable read'. With the excitement, love and happiness. Sure, it has its moments of elaborate joy, but it's nothing more than a mere broken dream, or maybe she might've called it a fulfilled dream. Indeed, she had an odd way of thinking about things, rather dreamy, she might've called this her little tragedy, her very own version of 'Romeo a Juliet', though it might make her seem to have quite a hateful way of thinking about things if I said it like that, as if what she did was all up to her; non-the-less it was her ways and I liked her ways of thought, non in anyway distasteful. I really did love her until the end of us.

Of course, I'm not writing to whine about my life, merely to tell the story of a dear acquaintance and colleague of mine.

Renee Leigh Delilah, that was her name. Oh yes, the name I loved so. It sounds quite cliché, but as briefly aforementioned this is not a tale of a beautiful couple who fall in love and, despite their ups and downs or any foe they might encounter, marry, have lots of beautiful children and (as I believe they say) 'live happily ever after.

Nor am I going to tell you of my distraught rejection and her hatred towards me, because through all that happened to her in her quite miserable life, I doubt she ever stopped loving me. Though I could never be quite as perfect as her, there was always still a tiny glimmer in those pretty eyes that still remained, even when everything else practically vanished around her.

This is the story of the life of Renee Leigh Delilah, oh how I wish she had not left me as she did that night. Indeed, I dove into a pool far too deep, I was not to resurface and if I ever did I'd loose the pools; I'd almost loose the memory, the glitter.

It might seem as if I'm rambling on about some nonsense now, maybe it is nonsense, maybe Mrs. Delilah never existed but her presence was too strong to be perceived as some sort of sordid non-existence.

Handle this story carefully; I won't have her forgotten like the bland drunken eyes that fell upon her. I won't let them win, not ever. Though her later memories might have only ever been the face with the distorted expression of physical pain playing upon it, mine might be the same.

I was prepared; she was prepared for maybe the best years yet to come in her life, we were so ready, just us, it was always just us. If I convince myself enough I might think it wasn't my fault, I let her go, I know I did. And I don't have time for the convincing.

Beautiful Renee, where are you now, do you still remember me? Are you disappointed I let this happen to you? I know your not. I know you do secretly. You never liked to tell of yourself, of what you thought inside though you told me there you always thought strangely inside.

I'd send you a letter if I knew you were a real. I'd send you a letter if I'd of caught you.

Well… I hope my little introduction prepared you (Those of you who are still reading) for the truths I am about to write about Renee Leigh Delilah in this particularly nifty, black, spiral notebook.


	2. Chapter 2

Me and Renee Leigh Delilah first met in a quaint café in New York, and when I say quaint I mean quaint, but that somehow added to the experience of the late nights in there, let me elaborate.

Small as it was the café never felt crowded due to the fact that you would seldom see more than a few groups of people there on a night. I suppose nobody really recognized the place as anything but a dusty run-down old café, but it was much more than that.

There were tiny pine wood tables and chairs scattered around the room and a few bookcases adorning the almost bare walls on various places, the cases were usually stacked with tattered, old leather bound books, these books were now commonly used as decoration rather than there original source of entertainment because upon reading these books, most seemed to be very dull and unmemorable.

Anyway, on the center of the back wall there was a small wooden platform, although it didn't look too much like one, it was more commonly known as a stage. Every so often there was an open mic night (No, not karaoke, open mic). At which time a few customers would get up and perform mostly the performances included; singing, instrumental or reciting poems, all, which were very entertaining. I made sure I turned up to as many of these nights as I could, they sometimes lasted until the early hours in the morning, even the least amount of people could create fascinating performances that, sometimes repeated, lasted throughout the night. I, as always, had my guitar slung over my shoulder, I found myself to be fairly talented at playing but I very rarely came up to perform.

On the night in question, it was around 11 o'clock (But I guess, the clock in the café had a thing for stopping and starting). Renee Leigh was sat in the back of the café patiently, unnoticeable at first until she got to her feet.

The stage was empty for a few moments when she had the chance, striding across the room rather nervously, not wanting to walk too fast or too slow in fear of embarrassment. She stood to the microphone and the low buzz of chatter that plagued the room throughout the night suddenly died down as everyone began to stare in awe at the beauty before them.

Regardless of the nerves that glistened in her eyes there was no doubting that Renee was beautiful. Her porcelain face was framed perfectly by the slightly wavy, vibrant, yet naturally red locks of hair that fell just above her waist. Her hands shaking a little, she brushed a lock of hair from her angelic, shockingly large, slivery-blue pools (she liked to call eyes) that were darting across the audience, gawping hungrily at her.

The girl's looked upon her with admiration then jealously, the boy's looked upon her with shock and then lust, I don't think she was particularly impressed with the expressions the audience bore as her face still held shyness, her gaze fell on me and I chose to smile sweetly at her, I watched her giggle quietly back, nobody else really noticed. I like to think I made her a little less uneasy.

Everyone knew there was something special about this beautiful girl even before she started singing, and this was not because of her looks. Just a strange presence everyone felt upon first noticing Renee. Never the less she began to sing, as I remember,

'You do something too me' by Paul Weller

Of course not a song heard _too _much recently but all in all, still a delicate song.

The way she sung, it is terribly hard to describe but I might as well try.

A voice of an angel might typically be used; this was so much more. She sung a capella as there were no instruments with her. It was only her and a microphone and in honesty, she could've lived her career live with only a microphone and still amaze people as she did that night.

Her voice cracked nervously with the first note (And an easy first note at that). Everyone seemed to glance away feeling a slight embarrassment that maybe this beautiful girl couldn't live up to 'high-standard' looks that predicted talent (or that's what everyone thought), but of course they did. Her voice was unique, she could go as low as a disgruntled adult singer and as high as a whistle and still sound equally beautiful. She always protested it was natural without trying to sound too 'up herself' but nobody ever believed she could sing like that without the aid of professional training.

I felt although I could play along with her, my fingers itched to strum the song I'd played many times before, and with her voice, we might stop a battle in war. I tried to remain as natural as possible, everyone gawped in awe and she tried not to noticed, her eyes fixed on the ugly wall; I noticed now and again her crystalline eyes dart towards me and back, so quick, nobody could notice unless they expected her to look at them.


End file.
